


To a better year

by i_gaze_at_scully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 20:52:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17251205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_gaze_at_scully/pseuds/i_gaze_at_scully
Summary: A peek at an unexpected tradition: Mulder and Scully share a kiss every New Year's (which helps explain the underwhelming Millennium kiss).





	To a better year

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Grace (@how-i-met-your-mulder on tumblr) for donating her amazing idea to me and letting me run with it.

**_i._** He didn’t intend to whisk her away on a case over New Year’s, especially not so soon after her father passed, but time stops for no man, and there is no rest for the weary. He spends the crux of old and new in a ratty old motel with his new partner.

Mulder has the TV on, Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve on mute. Revelers in party hats huddle for warmth in the neon and chrome of Times Square. Scully’s knock startles him.

“Have you ever done New Year’s in Times Square?” She asks when he opens the door, standing in the frame in her suit at 11:50 on New Year’s Eve. He hesitates, and she nods towards the TV. “I have it on, too.”

“No, I haven’t,” he answers belatedly, letting her in. “Never had in interest in pissing in a Coke bottle and freezing my ass off.” She smiles absentmindedly at his crude remark. She seems lost in something, staring at the screen with unfocused eyes. Tonight is a time for remembering, reflecting, and Mulder realizes with a pang just how much she’s gone through since she met him not a year ago. She sits carefully on the chair opposite the TV, and he perches himself at the edge of his bed.

“I almost went in college once,” she recalls, eyes still glued to the screen. “Some friends bought tickets and offered to bring me along. I didn’t feel like footing the bill though.” She smiles to herself, chuffs out a small laugh. “They ended up losing their spot to use the bathroom, actually, and none of their pictures developed. It would’ve been nice to be with them, but I’m glad I didn’t go.”

As the pressure of time and gravity pull the ball closer to the ground, Scully’s eyes mist over a bit.

“Have you ever been kissed on New Year’s?” She asks at 11:58. After blinking tears back, she looks at him with as much cheer as she can muster. He regards her skeptically, a smile playing at his lips and the potential proposition.

“Not in a while,” he admits. “Not a bad way to ring in the new year though.” She nods her agreement, and Dick Clark and friends start the countdown from 30.

“‘94 will be better,” she mumbles, a promise or a plea, he can’t tell. He gets up off the bed and crouches beside her. At 7, he kisses her on the cheek. She smiles up at him, and at 0, she kisses him, chaste and quick, on the lips.

“Happy New Year,” they both say at the same time. He chuckles, and, suddenly hyper aware of her proximity, steps back.

“See you tomorrow,” she says, sliding around him gracefully and closing his door gently behind her. He lays back down on his bed and nods appreciatively to himself. He’ll see what ‘94 has in store, but for now he’s choosing to believe his new partner’s hopes for the new year.

–––––

**_ii_**. It’s still so fresh, her absence. Like playing in the snow as a kid and running your near frostbitten hands under warm water when you’re inside. They thaw, but it’s slow, tingly, and painful. He’s still slowly regaining feeling, belief and assurance that she’s here. Seeing her still tingles, and seeing her in danger burns.

Scully missed Thanksgiving by two days, and he thinks that may be part of the reason Mrs. Scully gave up after only four weeks. Holidays without loved ones can only be made worse by holidays without answers. He would know.

But she was here for Christmas. The cross on her neck glints in the sun of late afternoon in the office the day after. This week is limbo, with half the building emptied out and discarded trees littering the sidewalks and stoops across Washington.

“Hey Scully,” he says near the end of the day on Friday. She finishes writing something on her pad before looking up at him. “Have any New Year’s plans tomorrow?” He swivels side to side in his chair.

“No, I don’t,” she admits. “I’m getting brunch with my mother and sister New Year’s Day though.” He nods, swivels some more.

“Because,” he continues when she puts her head back down and her pencil back to the paper, “I was thinking maybe we could step up our game from last year.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard. A motel in the middle of Pennsylvania is a pretty low bar.”

“So do you want to come out with me then?” He asks, his palms sweating for some reason.

“Maybe if you stop swiveling–you’re giving me vertigo over here,” she jests, and he smiles and slows to a stop. “What did you have in mind?”

“There’s a bar in my neighborhood that has a pretty low key shindig. It’s not Times Square, but at least–”

“–At least we won’t freeze,” she finishes. He drums his fingers on his thigh under the desk. “Sure,” she agrees. “I’m in.”

As it turns out, the Dirty Dog’s lowkey shindig was more popular than Mulder remembered. 11:45 and they were still on line to get in. Shivering through her coat, Scully shoots him a glance that tells him she’s less than thrilled about their situation.

“So much for not freezing our asses off,” he says, and she tucks her chin to her chest in response. On a whim, Mulder grabs her hand from under her arm. “Come on, Scully,” he says, pulling her out of the line and away from the bar. A few blocks later, they come up on their destination.

“IHOP, Mulder? Really?” He throws her his best smile and holds the door for open.

“It’s warm,” he contends. “And there’s coffee.”

She acquiesces when the blast of heat hits her freezing face and he leads her to the hostess stand by the small of her back.

They know it’s midnight when the street outside erupts in activity, hordes of people taking to the streets with streamers and noisemakers and drunken whoops and hollers. Over their coffees, they share a smile. 

“To ‘95 being better than ‘94,” he toasts with his mug raised.

“To 1995,” she answers, and they finish the rest of their coffee.

“I should get going,” she says shortly after. He follows her gaze and watches a couple outside stumble down the block. “Brunch is at 9:30.”

“That’s not brunch, that’s breakfast, Scully,” Mulder chides, taking out his wallet. A generous tip on the table, he follows Scully out and braces himself against the wind.

“Thanks for a nice night, Mulder,” she says, and he laughs skeptically. “Well,” she smiles, “at least for the coffee.”

“Low bar,” he reminds her, and she laughs. She looks up at the sky for a moment, then takes a step towards him, kisses him on her tiptoes with her hands still tucked under her arm.

“Happy New Year, Mulder.”

“Happy New Year, Scully.”

–––––

**_iii._**  He’s not one for New Year’s parties, but if he has to go, he’d really rather not go alone. So when the Gunmen invite him over, he calls Scully and asks her if she’ll come along. To his surprise, she agrees.

“Can’t be worse than spending it at IHOP,” she says.

“Low bar,” he recalls from last year, pleased it’s working in his favor now. “Meet me at my place in an hour?”

“See you soon,” she says, hanging up and materializing at his door exactly an hour later in jeans and a soft-looking black sweater. Casual Scully always brings a smile to his face.

“Come on in. I figured we could use a beer before heading over to the three stooges’.”

“Got anything stronger?” She challenges with eyebrows raised. And just like that, at precisely 10 o’clock, they show up properly plastered.

If Langley is surprised to see Scully, he doesn’t show it when he throws the door open, properly plastered himself. Mulder notices that there’s no one else there but the five of them.

“Looks like we’re the party,” he leans in and whispers to Scully, who stifles laughter in response.

“I heard that, Mulder,” Frohike chimes in. “And now you get no enchiladas.”

“More for me,” Scully says, leaning closer to Mulder and nudging him with her shoulder. He gives her his best pout and she flashes him a toothy grin he’s not sure he’s ever seen before.

The night passes in games of Charades and ( _no, Frohike, we’re not playing spin the bottle_ ) Pictionary, premature toasts ( _to Mulder’s video collection! Shut up, Frohike!)_ and poking fun at the Times Square crowd as the clock reads hurdles towards midnight.

“Delightful to have you, Agent Scully,” Mulder hears Frohike slur, and he applauds Scully for keeping a straight face, trying not to laugh himself. “Would you do me the honor of being my New Year’s kiss?”

Mulder blames his sudden flush on the beer, but perks his ears up and awaits Scully’s response. He fiddles with his cup until he feels a warm hand tap his arm.

“Sorry, Frohike, Mulder and I have a bit of a tradition.” She’s flushed too, deep red to rival her hair, but she was worlds smoother than he ever could be. He smiles down at her appreciatively. Frohike whistles low, claps Mulder on the shoulder. “Atta boy!” He whispers, far louder than he probably thought, and walks away.

“I’ll be your New Year’s kiss,” Langley says, throwing a smooch Frohike’s way to the laughter of Mulder and Scully.

“Shut up, Langley,” he sulks. “Hey! Byers, wake up! It’s midnight!” In the corner, Byers stirs, the empty cup in his hand falling to the floor.

“Nice save,” Mulder commends Scully, tilting his cup to her.

“Nice party,” she responds, finishing the rest of her beer and tapping the rim to his raised cup.

“Better than IHOP?” He asks.

“Marginally.” She has a playful smile and he opens his mouth to thank her for coming with him but the cacophony of the countdown cuts him off.

She kisses him early, on 6. “Didn’t want an audience,” she laughs after, snaking an arm around his waist from the side. He wishes her a happy new year on 0, ignoring Frohike’s spying gaze and laughing when Scully turns to him and shrugs.

“‘96 will be better,” she says to him, and he drains his cup to that.  _Already is_ , he thinks.

–––––

**_iv._**   It’s New Year’s Eve that he buys her the keychain. His throat closes up when he debates giving it to her now, or waiting until her birthday in February. What if she’s not… he pockets it, swallows his fears, and calls to invite her over.

“Come over,” he says when she answers, less of an invitation and more of a command, at least an understanding.  _This is what we do_ , he thinks.  _This is how New Year’s goes, how it always goes_. Neither of them had mentioned it all week, wrapped up in backlogged reports and getting accounting off their backs.  _Maybe a vacation will dislodge the sticks up their asses_ , he’d joked one day earlier in the week, and Scully had thrown a balled up piece of paper at him in response. While he waits for her response now, a moment of panic takes hold. Is she still angry? After Jerse?  _Not after the hospital_ , he hopes desperately against the pain in his chest.  _Not now that she’s sick, please–_

“I don’t know Mulder, the bar is pretty high after last year.” Her tone calms his racing heart and he lets out a heavy breath.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he promises, his mind spinning into a tentative plan.

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

He comes up short. He blanks on her favorite wine, opts for a beer he knows they both like. The liquor store is completely out of champagne, so he ends up with some pink crap–rosé, the kid behind the counter tells him. No hats or noisemakers, no music. He puts Rockin’ Eve on and rubs his neck. Goddammit. He paces in front of his couch while he waits for her, checks his watch.

It’s not like they haven’t hung out. He’s come to enjoy the nights they post up with a movie and a six pack more than any other social activity (not that there are many of those). He loves their travel chess and checkers set for dull motel nights. He’s even come to love the long stretches of silence on road trips, punctuated with Scully’s snores and his off tune sing alongs. She is his best friend. She’s his best friend and she’s… she’s…

She’s here. She doesn’t knock–he hears her key turning in the lock. He stops pacing, runs to the fridge before she can come in and cracks open a beer. With as much nonchalance as he can manage, he holds it out to her as soon as she steps through the door.

“Merry- Happy New Year,” he stumbles, and she chuffs with her perfectly arched eyebrow.

“Did you start without me?” She asks, accepting the beer and taking a swig.

It’s a low day when the Gunmen throw a better party than he does. The beer is flat, his TV connection’s poor in what’ll be a White New Year’s storm, and he can see Scully nodding off a little after 11. Damn.

“Hey.” He prods her with his elbow on the couch. “I’m going to make an Irish coffee–you need one?”

She  _mm_ s and nods, and when he gets up to make the coffees, he watches her stretch her arms up, roll her neck out.

“Sorry I’m such a shitty host,” he says from the kitchen. “Maybe we should’ve gone to IHOP.” He brings the coffee over, then the whiskey and a bottle of whipped cream. She doesn’t say anything, and his heart sinks. It’s not hard, celebrating the new year, and yet he managed to fuck it up for her.

She reaches over him to pour the whiskey, heavy handed and splashy. Then she uncaps the whipped cream and squirts a smiley face into both of their mugs.

“I’m glad you invited me over,” she says. When she sips her coffee, the cream clings to her upper lip and when she smiles, his heart warms.

The revelers’ countdown from thirty is cut off as the power cuts out. Mulder curses under his breath.

“Hang on, I’ll get a candle.” He fumbles his way toward the kitchen for a lighter, bumping his knee against a chair with a groan. “Don’t you have a flashlight?” Scully asks from the couch.

“That would help in this endeavor, wouldn’t it?” He calls back. “It’s in my night side table drawer. Can you grab it?” He hears her stumbling too and cannot believe this is how they’re bringing in the new year. It has to be midnight by now.

Having secured the lighter, he makes his way to the bathroom for the candle. He really needs to reevaluate his blackout backups.

Scully is already there, wiggling the light in his face and producing the candle. “You should keep these closer together,” she notes, reading his mind.

“I know.” Standing close to him in his tiny bathroom, she shines the light on the candle and holds it for him while to light the wick. As the flame dances between them, Scully reaches up and kisses him, lingering maybe a moment longer than usual before rocking back on her heels.

“It’s probably midnight already, right?” She says, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

“Definitely already 1997, I’d say. And from what you always tell me, ‘97’s supposedly going to be better.”

“It will be,” she confirms. He watches her features waver and transform in the shaky light. She smiles softly, just at the corners, but when she goes to hand him the candle, he watches as a drop of scarlet stains the wax.

“Oh god,” he whispers, immediately scolding himself for his reaction. “Do you need, should I–”

“I’m fine, Mulder. I just, I’m just going to wash up.” She all but shoves the candle at him, and he side steps his way out into the hall quickly as she pulls the door shut behind him.

He places the candle on his kitchen counter with shaking hands.

“I think I’m going to go home,” she says quietly when she emerges. She presses the flashlight gently into his palm, and before she goes, he pulls her into his chest. Resting his cheek on her head, he breathes her hair in and lets her go.

When the door clicks shut behind her, he realizes  _he’s_  never kissed  _her_  on New Year’s, and a shiver runs down his spine as he realizes he may never have the chance.

–––––

**_v._**  Scully wants nothing more than to leave California, he knows, but it isn’t until New Year’s Eve that they finally get to fly back. Scully, stoic from the motel to takeoff, sleeps fitfully on the plane, curled up against the window as Mulder watches her from the corner of his eye. At some point, turbulence jolts her awake and she gasps, reaching out blindly in front of her. On instinct, Mulder takes her hand.  _Almost home_ , he tells her, and she nods her head rapidly.

She stares out the passenger side window into the parking garage when they finally land. He hesitates starting the car, waiting for something. He isn’t sure what he’s waiting for till she mumbles “Can you stay with me tonight?” with her face turned from him still.

“Of course.”

They don’t turn Rockin’ Eve on––it feels twisted to celebrate. Scully’s daughter, a phrase he still hasn’t quite wrapped his head around, is dead, and 1998 looms heavy on the horizon because of it. It’s hardly past 10 when her jet lagged eyelids start to droop.

“Get some sleep, Scully,” he urges, taking a mug of tea, abandoned but still warm, from her hands. She nods a couple of times, unmoving, before finally sucking in a breath and standing up. He starts making up the couch when she retreats to her bedroom, pausing to thank him softly from the threshold. “Of course,” he repeats, and she’s gone.

Not long afterwards, her door cracks open. She stands there in her silk pajamas with her arms wrapped tightly around herself and tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.

“Oh Scully,” Mulder breathes, a lump forming in his throat. Clutching herself even tighter, she breaks into a sob. He’s at her side the next moment, gently prying her hands from her elbows and wrapping her up in his arms.

“‘98 will be better, remember?” He whispers into her hair, pressing small kisses along her part and hairline, one on her forehead, one between her eyebrows. It wasn’t too long ago that he stood in a hospital hallway with her like this, but he can’t find the words to express his gratitude for her health without discounting her grief, so he just rocks her in his embrace.

“Do you want to stay up for a little?” He asks, and she nods into his chest. She doesn’t leave his arms, even as they curl up on the couch, and he lets her cry until there are no tears left. It’s past midnight when she sighs and whispers  _Happy New Year,_  kisses him, and leaves him alone on the couch.

–––––

**_vi._**  Diana used to kiss him on New Year’s. She loved the holiday, loved dressing up as much as he loved undressing her afterwards. They went to a hotel party for a couple of years, booked a room and made a night of it. They spent one year with Rockin’ Eve on in the background as they unpacked their new apartment. One year she told him she wasn’t feeling up to it, and one month later, she was in Europe.

Diana doesn’t strike him as the kind of person to get all dolled up on New Year’s anymore. She surprises him, sauntering into his office when Scully’s out for lunch and asking him what his plans are.

“I’m not sure yet,” he says, guilt building in his stomach. “Why?”

“There’s a pop up bar in Dupont. A winter wonderland theme to bring in the new year. I was wondering if you wanted to come with me. There’s a lot to celebrate.” Her smile seems genuine, soft like it used to be. His heart skips and he looks out the skylight, checks his watch. Scully will be back soon.

“That sounds… interesting. I’ll uh, let you know.” He scratches the back of his neck and waits for her to leave, but she doesn’t. “Thanks for the invite.”

When she’s gone, he spins a pencil across his knuckles until Scully comes back.

“Got you an iced tea,” she says, closing the door with her hip and putting the cup down on his desk. “Are you okay?” She asks. “You look a little spooked.”

“I guess that’s better than looking spooky,” he musters, but she isn’t buying it. “I’m fine. Thanks for the iced tea.”

“So I was thinking,” she starts, tapping her fork against the edge of her salad bowl. “What if we did something different for New Year’s this year?”

He opens his mouth to joke about the bar being low, but thinks better of it. If she suggests the pop up bar in Dupont he’s going to keel over right here, right now.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Do you trust me?” The question hangs in the air, light but sour as it goes down.

“Completely,” he says, and she’s taken a bit aback by his seriousness, but carries on.

“Meet me at my place around 10. Dress warmly.” She smiles and returns to her salad. He thinks of Diana’s invite and decides he’s not the type to go all out on New Year’s anymore either. Maybe he never was.

She’s waiting outside her apartment, bundled in a jacket, scarf, and hat, her gloved hands poking out from under her arms.

“Are we celebrating as icicles this year?” He asks, his own ears turning red in the cold.

“Come on, we’ll warm up a bit on the way over.” She blasts the heat in the car and they settle on a station. He doesn’t ask where they’re going, but mentally maps their route.

“Are you taking me to the beach?” He finally asks as they bypass Annapolis on the highway. In the distance, the Chesapeake Bay Bridge looms. Scully shrugs, but he can see her contained excitement. “I’m not in the mood for swimming,” he teases, and she swats at his arm from the driver’s seat. When they park, she hands him a backpack to carry, which he gladly takes.

Kent island reminds him a bit of the Vineyard. Lots of coastal towns look the same, though. He hasn’t spent much time in this one, but it feels homey nonetheless. Especially with Scully walking beside him, pressed into his arm for warmth.

“I  _am_  taking you to the beach,” she admits. “But don’t worry, no swimming.” As the reach the end of the boardwalk, Scully pauses, pushing at his arm to turn him so she can take the backpack. She pulls out a blanket and a bottle of champagne and motions towards the sand. They spread out the blanket, and he follows her lead as she lays down on it, facing skyward.

“The city seems so far away, here,” he muses, looking up at the stars whose brilliance is obscured back in DC. “You love the stars, don’t you?” He adds, glancing at her as she stares up in silence. She takes a deep breath in, fog swirling upwards from her lips in the cold as she exhales.

“Should be starting soon,” she says mysteriously, propping herself up on her elbow. A piece of hair falls in front her forehead from under her hat, and he reaches over to tuck it back in.

“What should?” He asks.

She smiles, wide and true, and points over to the right. “The fireworks.”

And just like that, like she’s the time-keeper herself, like New Year’s Eve and the rest of the universe is centered solely on her, a single firework explodes in the sky. It’s followed quickly by a symphony of others, brilliant blues and golds, reds and silvers, littering the spaces between the stars. Scully takes her gloves off to pop the bottle of champagne, but struggles as the cold sets in. Mulder places his gloved hands around hers, smiles as she winces in preparation for the pop of the cork.

“Oh my god,” Scully exclaims, her head falling to her arm. “I forgot cups!” Mulder takes the bottle from her hands, takes a big swig, and passes it back.

“No problems here,” he says, and she drinks some as well. “Thanks for taking me out here, Scully. This is…this is really nice.”

“Happy New Year Mulder,” she says, leaning over to kiss him with sweet, bubbly lips. “I have a good feeling about ‘99.”

“It’s going to be better,” he agrees, tilting his face back to the stars.

They take turns till the bottle’s gone, till the fireworks end and the sounds of the ocean come rushing back. On the walk back to the car, he holds her hand.

–––––

**_vii._**  They’ve spent almost a decade’s worth of New Years in various places, though never the same place twice, he realizes. So when they end up in a hospital watching the ball drop on a tiny screen mounted to the wall, he figures it’s par for the course. His arm in a sling might be an unexpected twist, but he’s not in much pain anymore. Mulder looks at Scully, taking time this year to really reflect. Reflect on all they’ve been through, all they’ve seen, all they’ve overcome and accomplished an come to understand. She’s been a beacon, an anchor, a partner, a friend, and something so much more. As she watches the ball drops, he remembers years back, back when she was sick, the pit in his stomach realizing  _she_  always kissed  _him_  on New Year’s. So with the new millennium in its infancy, the ball just touching the ground, the pixelated shouts and celebrations in the background, he kisses her. Like most of their New Year’s kisses, it’s sweet and chaste, but he lingers. And he smiles.

“The world didn’t end,” he says.

“No, it didn’t,” she says wistfully, with a matching smile.

“Happy New Year, Scully.”

“Happy New Year, Mulder.”

Good arm around Scully, they walk out of the hospital waiting room together. “2000,” he whispers, leaning in. “It’s going to be the best.”

 

 


End file.
